Authors: Lauren Rowe
We all hold our breath, waiting for whatever bomb Dax is about to drop.
“Dax Attack,” Dax finally mumbles, clearly embarrassed, and we all burst out laughing again.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” the emcee suddenly bellows onstage, interrupting our collective laughter.
Zander looks at his watch, his eyes lighting up. “Oh, I bet this is gonna be Peenie.”
The emcee continues: “Put your hands together for a spicy hot dancer who’s gonna bring the
caliente
to you tonight: the one and only—Latin Lover!”
The crowd applauds enthusiastically and an attractive Latino dude comes onstage and begins shaking his ass to Pitbull’s “I Know You Want Me.”
I sip my drink and watch the guy politely for a grand total of twenty seconds. And then I’m bored out of my mind.
Meh
. So I shift my attention from the guy onstage and do what I’ve been doing all night: I watch the frenzied women in the audience as they watch the performer onstage.
Oh, how the women in this club love themselves some nearly naked, gyrating man-meat. I had no idea women went this nuts over male strippers, and I must say I’m fascinated. I can’t help thinking the uninhibited female revelry I’m witnessing wouldn’t fly
at all
if the genders in this room were reversed. I mean, seriously, if the stripper onstage were a woman and the audience full of men—and if even
one
guy in that hypothetical male audience behaved the way this
entire
female audience is behaving—that skeevy guy would no doubt find himself bounced out of the club faster than he could say, “Show me your tits!” Frankly, he might even be arrested for sexual assault.
Oh my gosh
.
My eyes widen to the size of saucers.
My chest tightens.
I put my drink down.
Eureka
.
The vague swirl of ideas percolating inside my brain since yesterday has just crystallized into an actual
idea
—and a
brilliant
one, at that, I do believe.
“By George, I think I’ve got it!” I blurt, slapping my palm onto the table.
All conversation at my table ceases and everyone looks at me expectantly.
“Oh, she’s got an idea,” Hannah says to everyone, her eyes lighting up. “What is it, honey?’
I can’t speak. My brain is whirring and clacking like factory equipment roaring to life after a power outage.
“What kind of idea?” Dax asks, looking genuinely interested.
“For your documentary, honey?” Hannah asks.
I nod.
“Awesome!” Hannah squeals. She looks at the group. “Maddy’s got to turn in a huge film project by the end of the year for her documentary filmmaking class and she’s been trying to come up with her ‘big idea’ all summer.” Hannah looks at me, her face aglow. “So what’s your big idea, lil sissy?”
My heart is absolutely racing with excitement. I can barely speak. I take a deep breath to collect myself. “What if I do a sequel to
Shoot Like a Girl
, only this time set in the world of
stripping
instead of basketball?” I blurt. “The exact same concept—looking at a popular activity slash cultural phenomenon and examining it through the prism of gender? Only this time with
strippers
!”
“Omigosh! I love it!” Hannah gasps, and everyone at the table echoes her enthusiasm.
My pulse is absolutely pounding. “I can feature interviews with strippers of each gender, the same way I did interviews of male and female basketball players, and then I’ll juxtapose the fun and lighthearted world of male stripping with the darker, more exploitative world of female stripping—and then dig into the million-dollar question of
why
the difference, you know?” I’m practically panting. Oh my God, I love it when my brain explodes with inspiration like this.
“I’d totally watch that movie,” Dax says.
“Me, too,” Zander says. “But, um, just double-checking before I pay the price of admission—there’ll be at least a
glimpse
of a woman on a pole in this documentary, right?”
Everyone laughs and Zander flashes me a huge smile, telling me he’s just messing with me, and I melt under his adorable gaze.
God, I love Zander Shaw. The moment I met him in Dax’s apartment a few hours ago, I instantly understood why Keane adores the hell out of him. Which he
so
obviously does, oh my freaking God. Have you ever seen one of those videos where a solider comes home from deployment and is reunited with his beloved Labrador—and the dog is so overcome with joy, his entire body wags? Well, that’s exactly what it was like when Keane was reunited with Zander this afternoon (and, yes, just in case you’re wondering, Zander was most definitely the returning soldier and Keane the Labrador).
I flash Zander a huge smile across the table. “Well, I make no promises, Z,” I say, “but I’d think at least
glimpsing
a woman on a pole in a movie about strippers is a pretty good bet.”
“Then count me in.”
I laugh with glee, suddenly overcome with excitement. “I really think I’m onto something here. I read up on stripping a little bit while Keane was driving yesterday and what I’ve learned about the male-female dichotomy is intriguing. It seems male strippers do the job mainly for fun and to boost their egos, way more so than for money, while female strippers, on the other hand, overwhelmingly say they’re in it for the money and nothing else. In fact, women overwhelmingly say the job actually
degrades
their self-esteem.”
“Wow, you’ve already researched all that?” Zander says.
“Sounds like you already had a pretty firm grasp on your idea before coming here tonight,” Hannah says.
“Not really. It took coming here and seeing this crowd for the idea to click into place.”
“Ah, inspiration,” Dax says wistfully. “So hard to pin down. I can certainly relate.” He grins at me.
“It’s gonna be
so
good, Maddy,” Hannah says.
“Indubitably,” Henn agrees.
“Hey, you could call it
Strip Like a Guy
—that sounds kind of sequel-ish, doesn’t it?” Hannah says.
“Omigosh, I love it!” I shout.
Everyone at the table agrees that title rocks.
“Leave it to the PR woman to come up with the badass title,” Henn says, looking lovingly at Hannah. He kisses her on the cheek. “You’re a fucking genius, babe.”
“Aw, Henny,” Hannah says, her cheeks glowing.
Henn raises his blue martini to me. “Here’s to you, Maddy. It sounds like we’re gonna be cheering you on at the Oscars in a couple years, huh? I’ll get my tux pressed now, just in case.”
Everyone clinks my glass and offers me best wishes, making me blush.
“Thanks so much, guys,” I say. I shoot a special smile to Henn. “Thanks, Henn.”
He grins at me. “You betcha, pretty lady. Go forth and conquer. We’re all cheering you on. If you ever need my help with anything, just lemme know.”
“Aw, Henny,” my sister says again, sighing. She lays a big kiss on her adorable boyfriend’s cheek. “I love you.”
Henn lights up at my sister’s words of affection. “I love you, too, Banana,” he whispers. He turns his face to Hannah’s, nuzzles her nose gently, and then plants a soft and sexy kiss on her lips that sends blood whooshing into my crotch. Damn, that nerd can
kiss
.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand now I’m thinking about last night’s incredible kiss with Keane.
Again
. Why does
everything
I see make me think about that damned kiss?
I put my hands over my face, trying to get a grip, but my body is reacting to the memory of last night’s passionate kiss with Keane like it’s happening right now. For the love of God, I can feel my nipples hardening in my bra. Aaaaaand now I’m thinking about how Keane took my nipple into his mouth, just before I came. Oh, Jesus. Now I’m thinking about the delicious
orgasm
he gave me that rocked my world. And the way he held me on the dance floor in the bar when he told me he liked me too much to treat me like just another notch on his manwhoring belt. And then held me in his arms Lionel Richie style last night.
I sigh wistfully, lost in my thoughts, until an explosion of screams and applause draws my attention to the stage. Oh. It seems the Latin Lover has just finished his
caliente
performance. After blowing kisses to the audience, the guy gathers his clothes off the floor of the stage and makes his way to a cordoned-off table—a table Keane told us earlier is filled with talent scouts and agents, including an agent from the huge talent agency Keane’s hoping will sign him tonight.
As the Latin Lover approaches the VIP table, I observe the tepid body language of the people seated there. I could be wrong, of course, but it seems to me they weren’t any more enthralled by the Latin Lover than I was.
A wave of nerves crashes into me for Keane. God, I hope he knocks it out of the park tonight. If the industry people at that table see even one-tenth the star potential I see in Keane, who knows what opportunities might come his way?
Zander looks at his watch. “Peenie should be on next.”
“He’s gonna make everyone else look like chumps,” Dax says, sipping his drink.
“He said he’s gonna do his
Magic Mike
routine,” I offer. “The one where he dances to ‘Pony’?”
“Good,” Zander says. “That one always slays. Wait ’til you see our boy in action, Maddy—he’s gonna blow your mind.”
Well, yeah, I know,
I think.
I already saw our boy in action last night in the privacy of my motel room and he most definitely blew my mind.
Aaaaaaaaand now I’m thinking about last night again. The orgasm. His body smashed against mine. His arms. His wet tongue on my breasts. The way he pulled up my tank top and lay on top of me and how my soft, naked breasts molded into his muscular chest.
And that kiss.
Gah!
I’ve got to stop this. Keane and I have mutually decided to be
strictly
friends and I’ve simply got to move on and accept that fact, no matter how much my crotch throbs every time I think about last night’s deliciousness.
I take two huge gulps from my glass and drain it.
“Whoa, you want another one, Maddy?” Henn asks, and I nod vigorously.
Henn signals the cocktail waitress. “You okay?” he asks, leaning into me with concern.
I nod again, but I’m a freakin’ liar.
I’m not okay
. I’m a woman on the verge of a lust-induced, clit-throbbing nervous breakdown.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the emcee onstage bellows into a microphone, making me shoot upright in my seat. “Put your hands together for a talented gentleman who’s come here all the way from the Emerald City to entertain you!”
“Oh, shit, here we go!” Zander yells, rubbing his hands together.
I grab my phone off the table and scramble to set it to record, my hands shaking with nervous excitement.
The emcee continues: “Let’s give a warm and rowdy welcome to the man from Seattle with a hammer-in-his-pants... the one and only
Ball Peen Hammer
!”
Chapter 37
Maddy
When Keane swaggers onto center stage like he’s the undisputed heavyweight champion of the world—his astonishing blue eyes blazing, his hair spiked to perfection, his chiseled features and bulging muscles accentuated gloriously under the colored stage lights—the audience erupts, already sensing this blue-haired creature standing before them is going to deliver something unlike anything else they’ve seen tonight.
I hold my phone at the ready as I await the first familiar chords of “Pony,” my heartbeat pounding in my ears. But when the music starts, to my surprise the song isn’t “Pony.” It’s the sexy song that auto-played last night after “Trip Switch” had ended—“Itch” by Nothing But Thieves—the song that played when Keane kissed me and made me climax.
Keane lifts his head and scans the room, apparently searching for something specific, and when his eyes land on me, they stop searching.
Without thinking, I put my phone down on the table with a thud and give Keane my undivided attention.
He’s looking right at me
. Oh my God.
The sultry vocals of the song begin and, much to the screaming pleasure of the audience, Keane begins moving his hips and touching his torso, his eyes still trained on me.
I put my hand on my chest. Holy hell.
Keane rips off his shirt and throws it down like it’s searing his flesh, and the audience explodes into shrieking excitement. A moment later, the chorus of the song kicks into gear and Keane’s off to the races. He dips down to the floor, and then onto his hands. He dry-humps the floor with a fierceness that blows last night’s display out of the water. And then he hops back up and gyrates his body like a man freakin’ possessed.
Wow, the crowd is going absolutely crazy for him. And so am I, though I can’t seem to move a muscle.
Keane does an effortless backflip off the edge of the stage and strides with cat-like grace to the front row of the audience. In jaw-dropping, rapid-fire succession, he gives brief lap dances to several women in the front row, acquiring a flurry of crumpled dollar bills in his waistband as he goes, until, finally, he pulls a pretty brunette out of her chair and escorts her to the stage, shaking his ass in his low-riding sweatpants as he goes.
Once Keane’s onstage with his pretty brunette, he lays her onto the floor with gentleman-like care, brushes his knuckles against her cheek like she’s the great love of his life, and then rises to standing over her, gyrating deliciously the whole time.
First things first, Keane bends down to remove his sweatpants, a move that sends the dollar bills peeking out of his waistband fluttering to the ground—and when he straightens back up in nothing but the teeniest black G-string, every woman in the room, including me, gasps at the jaw-dropping sight of him. Holy hell.
For a long beat, Keane goes stock-still, his almost-naked body hulking over the giggling, prostrate woman onstage beneath him, his chest heaving, his muscles taut under the colored stage lights. He looks pointedly toward the back of the club again—and, this time, when he locates me, his eyes burst into freakin’ flames.